Leda Rose
by Daisy Miller
Summary: She was just a common street girl, but the dirt of the streets wasn’t in her veins. [SkitteryOC] [Rated for language]
1. Falling

_A/N: I've been working on this for a while now, and I can no longer discern if it's good or not, if it flows or makes any sense at all. _

_I'm going to leave the assessment of greatness up to you, the reader. So please review with all helpful comments, including but not limited to: how much this story rocks, how much this story sounds authentic (i.e., are my historical facts correct and/or is my characterization fairly believable), what I could do to improve this story, should this story be improved at all etc._

_This is only the first part; I have at least three parts planned. I might even make it to four._

_Enjoy._

Disclaimer (for this and all following chapters): I don't own anything recognizable.

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"Leda Rose"

_Falling_

She was just a common street girl, but the dirt of the streets wasn't in her veins. It didn't cover her cheek, and it didn't rest in her hair. It didn't cover the shine in her eyes, and it didn't coat her hands like gloves. It didn't drape across the folds of her skirt and it didn't cake on the bottom of her shoes. She was pristine. Clean. Rich.

He always noticed this, though he only ever caught a glimpse of her. Snapshots taken by a photographer who doesn't know how to work a camera. He saw her in parts: a hand, one shiny penny in the middle, like a target. The curve of her pink lips as she smiled, courteous and indifferent. An eye, avoiding contact. The other eye was always covered with a lock of pale blonde hair fallen forward on her brow, a winner in the battle with her comb.

He thought nothing of her. She was a customer. A regular. Every morning at eight o'clock. She was a way to make a living.

And he was barely making a living, even after the strike. News was slow. Boring. Overrated. Times were hard.

Hard times . . . . High times . . . .

It was a song he remembered. He never really liked it. It was annoying. Infectious. It had the kind of beat that got stuck in your head and grinded away at your brain until all that was left was a dull pain behind your eyes and the distinct feeling that your brain was no longer there.

High times, hard times . . . . Sometimes . . . .

"Nice song."

Skittery looked up and stopped whistling the song he didn't know he was whistling.

It was her.

That regular.

She had never spoken to him before, barely made eye contact. He'd seen her every day for the past two months, and it was weird to hear her talk, see her look at him straight in his eyes. It was like seeing a dream while fully awake.

They had a rhythm. Smile, paper, penny, nod.

She was ruining it. His whole day was ruined now.

"Thanks," he said, with a small, forced smile.

"I'm Leda." She held her hand out. Her nails were short and clean.

"Skittery," he said gruffly, shaking her hand. He let go quickly, ashamed of his ink-stained fingers. He didn't want to get her dirty. He wished he had thought to tell her his real name. Skittery sounded childish and immature. He was nearly eighteen.

"See you tomorrow," said Leda. She retreated quickly, her shoes echoing against the sidewalk like a nervous heartbeat.

Like someone lying.

She was probably lying about her name. It was probably something ugly. Like Hulga. Leda probably meant something great and philosophical, something he was too dumb to know. Something only a scholar would know. Because she must have been smart or rich or something. Her clothes were too clean for her to be poor.

She turned the corner, and the sound of her shoes was gone, blended with the other steps walking towards an unseen purpose, the other pulses of scattered and wasteful life. The people on the streets became an entity, a solid mass moving forward, backward, and nowhere all at once.

There was no synchronicity, no rhythm, but they all moved. Moved with a purposeful gait that said I am someone, I will succeed.

The purposeful gait was a farce. A facsimile of happiness. No one cared anymore. No one cared enough to help out the poor starving boy stuck like white dot in the middle of the black crowd. No one cared about anyone else. It was all a very selfish society. No one cared to read the news anymore.

Which was all fine for the next day, for there was no _World _to read. No newspaper to sell. No news to yell out. No way to make a living. The distribution office was closed. The gates were locked.

A crowd of newsies stood gathered around the gate, staring, hoping for someone to come and let them in, sell them their papers, let them live just one more day. Apparently there was a shortage of ink. The paper couldn't be printed until a ship from China or some place across the ocean arrived in the New York Harbor carrying a hundred or so cases of black shiny ink.

It wasn't arriving anytime soon, due to some "mechanical difficulties."

"It prolly ran outta steam," whispered someone in the crowd.

"Don't you know nothin'?" whispered someone else. "They don't run on steam no more. It's like oil or somethin'."

"I t'ought is was coal," whispered another boy.

No one knew why they were whispering. It felt like some great disaster which called for quiet voices. It felt like someone had died.

Skittery sat on the steps of the lodging house, staring at his worn shoes and sucking heavily on a cigarette. His last cigarette unless he could steal one of Race's while he wasn't looking. The smoke relaxed him and his mind wandered, like a puppy who had lost his owner. It wandered to a small pebble on the sidewalk. He picked it up and rolled it between his forefinger and thumb, realizing that it was shaped like a perfect sphere–like the earth.

A globe. He remembered his father pointing to globe once and saying, "We're goin' there some day. We're goin' all over the world and when we get done, yer mother is comin' back, just like I tol' ya son. Yer mother is comin' back." His father always sounded drunk. Or maybe that was just how he remembered him. Maybe his memories were distorted to fit the kind of father he always thought he had and not the kind of father he really had. He remembered wanting to tell his father that his mother wasn't coming back, but he really didn't have the heart to.

He sighed and took another drag of the cigarette, just as a shadow passed in front of him and hovered uncertainly above him. He looked up.

"Leda?" he asked, recalling the woman's name.

"Hey," she said, standing uneasily on her high heels. He had the feeling that she wasn't used to wearing such shoes. Or at least not those shoes in particular, because they looked brand new. Leather. Probably still smelled of leather too and not dirt and sweat. "Sorry, if this seems too forward, but . . . well ya weren't there. Today. On the corner."

He coughed nervously and stood up, wiping his hands on his pant legs ashamedly. "Yeah, well . . . there ain't nothing to sell."

"You mean there ain't no paper?" She shook her head, unwilling to believe his absurd excuse. "But, there's always a paper."

"Yeah, they, uh, ran outta ink or somethin' like that."

"How you gonna make money today?"

He shrugged. "Well, I guess I ain't, uh?"

She frowned and bit her lower lip. She looked guilty of something. Murder probably. Her husband that was cheating on her. Found 'em in bed together and she grabbed the steak knife. "Can I buy ya some coffee or somethin'? Lunch? How about lunch? It's almost noon. We can go wherever you like," she said.

"Thanks, but I can't . . . ."

"Why? 'Cause I look rich? Is that why you actin' so uncomfortable?"

"I ain't actin' uncomfortable."

"So this is the way you always act?"

"Yeah. I mean, no. I . . . I could use cup of coffee or somethin'. But not lunch. I, uh . . . I'm not real hungry."

She nodded, not believing any word of it. His eyes kept flitting around, afraid to look straight at her, as if his gaze would be considered an insult. A debasement of her body. An impure thought projected through his pupils.

Her dress was a little too tight.

"Lunch, then" said Leda. "How 'bout that place around the corner? What's it called? Tibby's?"

"Uh, yeah, Tibby's. I guess we could go there. If ya want."

She grabbed his hand, noticing the black-tinged fingers and not caring in the least. What was a little dirt and ink?

Something that could be washed off.

Tibby's was busy with the usual lunch crowd, only they were in a very bitter mood, cursing Pulitzer, and not eating lunch.

"Pulitzer, that son of a . . . ." "That go . . . ." "Damn bas . . . ." "Fu . . . .""Assho . . . ."

Skittery noticed that the phrases started to drop off as Leda walked to a table in the far left corner. The restaurant quieted by the time she sat down, and she looked at Skittery expectantly.

He started, as if from a daze, and sat down, ignoring the whispers pointed his way. He knew what they were saying anyway: "Who's _she_?"

Who _is _she? he asked himself.

Leda. She was Leda. But that was all he knew. He didn't know how old she was (although she only looked sixteen or so) and he didn't know if she was married or if she had a rich family. Probably not, because of her accent. She sounded as if she lived somewhere in Brooklyn. Maybe Queens. Not Manhattan, for surely he would have met her before two months ago. Maybe she just moved to Manhattan?

She was eying the menu with a very serious gaze. "What do you suggest?"

"Uh, the, uh . . . ." He scratched the back of his neck, eyeing the menu and trying to remember how read. It's not like this was a _date_. He needn't be so nervous. The girl was probably crazy. She probably escaped from a mental institute with one of those nature names, like Sunnyside or Oak Haven.

"The fish and chips is pretty good," said Jack, right next to Skittery's ear. He was leaning dangerously on the two back legs of the chair, his elbow resting on Skittery's shoulder.

Skittery wanted punch him in the mouth.

Why'd he have to talk so loud? It's not like they were outside. They were inside. Weren't you supposed to talk softer inside? Like a voice for the inside. An inside voice. Why couldn't Jack use a fuckin' inside voice?

Leda smiled. "Oh, but I don't like fish. Disgusting." She turned to Skittery. "What do you like Skittery?"

"Skittery likes the tomato soup."

"I can answer for myself you know," said Skittery, suddenly sitting up straight, causing Jack to nearly lose his balance.

Jack recovered fairly quickly, and he laughed, as if it was some good-humored joke between them. The urge to knock out a few of Jack's perfect teeth curiously intensified.

"I like the tomato soup," he answered for himself.

"I think I'll have the tomato soup," said Leda to the waiter. She smiled at the man, but her smile didn't quite reach her eyes, and Skittery felt like she was keeping it for someone. Hiding her smile for someone greater, someone more important. Someone she loved.

"So, uh . . . . Why you here again?" he asked.

She shrugged listlessly, like one of those girls that aren't afraid to kiss you when other people are around. "I just wanted a newspaper."

A newspaper, uh? She just wanted a newspaper. Why was a newspaper so important? It was just the news. It's not like the world had ended. Life goes on. You get over it.

Skittery nodded and began to eat his soup. He took a cautious sip, making sure that it wasn't too hot. He had planned to act courteous to her presence and act like a gentleman, but there was an emptiness in his stomach. The soup was sipped quickly–loudly–and bread was ripped savagely and stuffed into his mouth. If he hadn't been so hungry he would have shown her more respect than Race was, sitting at the table next to them yelling something about "fucking Pulitzer and his fucking paper."

It's not like she could hear his rudeness, anyway. Race was talking too loud.

Leda ate daintily, like a flower drinking up the sunlight patiently.

Practiced movements.

She had an air about her that attracted attention but banished any thoughts of familiarity. She was the girl you stared at, but never approached. You never got beyond the impression of her body, the curve of her shoulder, the perfumed cloud that clung to her movements. You never got close enough to her to find out if she was real or just a figment of a sexually depraved mind.

You never got beyond her smile, a secret for those who didn't know her.

You could never tell if it was the same smile or if it held some nuance, some slight differing pull of the right side. Or was it the left? Maybe she wasn't even smiling. Maybe that was the way her lips naturally held themselves and all other positions were a revelation of her emotions. Her frown was her smile, her smile her frown.

She finished eating and placed her spoon neatly on her plate. She took a few coins from her lace pocketbook and threw them down on the table. Standing up, she said, "Let's get out of here, uh? Let's go for a walk."

"Uh, sure."

He didn't have anything to do anyway. Besides, he didn't want her to think he was ungrateful for lunch. Placing his hat firmly on his head (and wishing he had bothered to at least comb his hair down so it didn't look like he had just woken up), he led the way out of Tibby's and down the street, towards the park.

The way to Central Park was filled with a bustling lunch crowd, business men making their way back to the offices and women making their way towards the shops, to buy the latest fashions–that hat they just couldn't live without. Leda held his hand the whole way, as if afraid he was going to run away like some insolent child. She seemed oblivious to disapproval of those they pushed passed. She seemed oblivious to the world, intent on one single purpose. Skittery wasn't sure if that one purpose was the park or not.

The trees in Central Park were green, the flowers were flourishing and Skittery and Leda were the only people around to enjoy them. They were utterly alone. The only sound was that of a bee, protesting against his limited choice of flowers. Roses or daisies. Daises or lilies. The bee really preferred geraniums.

Skittery was fairly certain their walk should be accompanied by conversation, but no conversing had taken place yet. He knew he should say something, and he opened his mouth instinctively. A strangled sound came out when he realized he really had nothing to say, and he covered it up with a cough.

"Say, it's awfully hot out here," she said, standing in front a pond. The tips of her shoes just barely touched the water.

A duck floated by. He quacked.

"You wanna go swimming?" she asked.

"No."

"Why?"

Because he only had one pair of pants, and he was wearing them right then. Swimming would mean getting wet and getting wet would mean remaining wet for the rest of the day. It could take him hours to completely dry off, and he didn't feel like sitting around in wet clothes. It was highly uncomfortable.

When he didn't answer, she scooped up a handful of water and flung it at him with a laugh.

"Dammit," he said. "What did you do that for?" He surveyed the damage, mumbling something about "pissing his pants." He couldn't go back to the lodging house now. They'd all laugh.

Skittery wasn't in the mood to partake in jokes.

Then again, Skittery was never really in the mood to partake in jokes, especially if they were at his expense.

Glum and dumb is what they called him. He wished they'd all just die.

"Dammit," he said again.

"I'm sorry." Her voice sounded sincere, and he thought about forgiving her. But he really didn't feel like it.

"Yeah, well . . . . That ain't good enough."

"C'mon," she said, taking his hand. "I'll get ya some new clothes."

He wrenched free from her grip. "I don't need no new clothes."

"Oh."

The duck quacked again.

"Then at least come back to my place for a while. We can hang your clothes out the window to dry."

Skittery shrugged. "Yeah, okay." It was either that or go back to the lodging house. He wasn't about to wander around New York City looking like he pissed his pants.

Leda's apartment was small but surprisingly pretentious. There was a brass sign on the door that read "Leda Rose" and the paint on the walls was a shiny white that made your eyes sting when you stared at it too long. The furniture looked as if it had never been sat in and was placed strategically throughout the room so that you had to take as many steps as possible to make it from one end to the other. The end tables were adorned with fresh roses, and the walls were decorated with paintings of the French landscape.

As he walked in, Skittery noticed a bouquet of roses by the door. He pointed them out to Leda, but she simply waved it off without giving an excuse. Not that he needed one. They were her flowers. It was her life. It wasn't his business.

"I have some spare trousers and a shirt that should fit you. They're my fathers," called Leda as she walked down a small hallway to his left.

"Where's your father?" he asked. He didn't want to be wearing the guys clothes and have him come home.

That would be awkward.

"He's dead."

"Oh."

She came back into the main room and handed him the clothes. "You can change in the bedroom down the hall."

"Thanks."

The pants were too large, and the shirt was missing half of the buttons. As he changed, he eyed the picture on the armoire. It was a photograph of an older man, a thick beard hiding his chin and a mustache covering his lips. Must be Leda's father, he thought. The man's eyes were staring at Skittery uncomfortably. All-knowing, as if he was God or something.

He turned away and walked out of the room, his wet clothes in his hand.

He found Leda sitting on the balcony, perched on the edge of the railing, her feet dangling below her. Leaning his back against the railing, he looked at her profile, his arms crossed over his chest.

She turned. "Tell me somethin'. About you. Anything you wanna tell me."

Though talking about himself was never Skittery's strong point, her enthusiasm to hear about his life urged him on and inflated his ego a few inches. He told her of the strike a few months ago. He told her why he was a newsie. What he thought about Pulitzer and the news. About how Pulitzer was just some greedy rich guy who didn't even know that his own wife was sleeping around. With Randolph Hearst no less. Yes, it's very true. Some newsie in Brooklyn had a cousin who worked as the doorman for one of them fancy hotels. He'd seen 'em walking in and out, all over each other.

He told her where he used to live. He told her of his family and why he left. After some pressuring, he told her how he got his nickname.

She laughed and sat her tea cup on the table. "It's getting late Skittery. I like you, you know that?" She stood up, and he followed suit. "We should meet tomorrow. Around six, after you've finished selling your newspapers."

"Uh, sure. Tomorrow."

"I'll see you then."

"Yeah. G'night."

"Night Skittery."

The door closed, and he was left standing in the dark with the image of her smile imprinted on his brain. He felt like he was forgetting something, but he shrugged and walked home.

It was after he stumbled up the steps of the lodging house that he realized he forgot to get his clothes.

(tbc)

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_A/N: Please review with all helpful comments, including but not limited to: how much this story rocks, how much this story sounds authentic (i.e., are my historical facts correct and/or is my characterization fairly believable), what I could do to improve this story, should this story be improved at all etc._

_Thanks for reading!_

_(edit 2/27): I've changed a small little bit about the belt. Thanks to Garen Ruy Maxwell for pointing out that mistake to me.)_


	2. In

"Leda Rose"

In

The first time she kissed him he was escorting her back to her apartment after a night at Irving Hall. Her hand was on his arm, perched lightly like a bird. A foreign parrot, exotic but not unusual. Completely fitting. She smiled at him, her smile that was becoming increasingly earnest. It was that smile that she hid, kept in her closet behind all of her shoes. He could almost believe that she loved him.

Too bad Skittery was never one to really believe in all that romance crap.

"Skittery, I really like you," she said.

She took a step closer to him. He cleared his throat.

"I, uh, kinda like ya too, Leda."

And then she leaned upwards and her lips touched his cheek.

His cheek burned as he walked home that evening. He felt like something marvelous had happened, and yet there something fabulous was still waiting. It was probably back there in her closet, sitting next to her smile.

Inside this sense of elation, however, he felt like he had done something wrong. Like maybe he should have said something instead of just nodding and stumbling down the stairs. She was probably sitting out on the fire escape, thinking that he didn't really like her. She probably thought all he wanted was her money. Because a poor newsboy would never be attractive to some rich lady. Not really anyway. Maybe it was just lust. But it wasn't love. Affection without an attachment. That's what it must be.

It was the only thing that made sense about her.

He didn't know where she got her money from and as far as he was concerned it wasn't technically his business to know anyway. She didn't seem like she wanted to tell him how she acquired her surprising fortune, and he didn't seem like he cared. Let her buy him dinner every once in a while. It was better than going without.

Skittery was no idiot. He knew that it could possibly be demeaning to his position as a man to have a women buying him meals. And a hat. And a brand new pair of suspenders.

But what was more important? His ego or his survival? He was perfectly willing to accept some favors from Leda. Mostly because she didn't flaunt her wealth.

She noticed that his hat was getting a hole in it, so she bought him a new one. She noticed that his suspenders were getting thin, so she bought him new ones.

There was little talk involved, and she generally paid for things before Skittery even knew they were being bought. She took liberty with Skittery and this familiarity was not unnoticed.

"You know, I've been thinkin'," said Racetrack one day, after Leda and Skittery had been together for a few months.

"Don't," said Skittery," 'cause you ain't good at it."

"If Leda's like a jockey, then you're like her horse, right? She's whippin' you. You're whipped Skittery."

"I ain't whipped," he said.

He didn't know what Race meant by "whipped" anyway.

"Or maybe ya like one of them lapdogs you always see them rich ladies carryin' 'round. Maybe you're her dog. One of them frilly things, like a poodle"

"What, like I'm her bitch or somethin'?"

Race laughed. "She's got ya tied to a leash, Skits."

"She ain't got me tied to a leash."

Race smirked. "Yeah, and you wanted that new hat. Because ya got to look good for all your customers."

". . . Shut-up, Race."

"I think someone's in denial."

"I ain't in denial."

He was in denial.

He could tell because he felt the leash getting tighter later that night, as she stared, her big wide eyes all watery and sad and hurt.

They were at Irving Hall. A band was performing, the female singer crooning soft, blue words of love and heartache. Smoke clouded the air and Skittery was beginning to get a headache. It was that music. The singer's voice was annoying. Soft and sweet and fake. It reminded him of a pigeon in Central Park.

A few of the boys were playing poker and Leda had somehow wandered over to their table. She eagerly wanted to learn, but Skittery hadn't been in the mood to teach her. Jack so kindly offered to instruct her in his stead.

"You see, that right there . . ."began Jack. His arm was slung around the back of Leda's chair. Skittery's fingers twitched, and he crossed his arms over his chest.

" . . . .that's a flush. It means that . . . ."

Jack smiled at her. It looked slightly more like leering to Skittery, and the air in room suddenly seemed thicker.

"You see what I mean . . . ."

Leda nodded and Skittery's annoyed, agitated feeling increased. The smoke was making his eyes itch and Jack's laugh was only perpetuating his headache.

The singer sang on.

The pain increased.

Leda laughed politely at something Jack said, and she leaned away from him, closer to Skittery, as if Jack was invading her bubble of personal space.

Jack was in her bubble and Skittery's gaze stayed focused on the wall in front of him. He barely even noticed when Leda placed her hand on his knee. He felt the warmth of her fingers and it made his skin tingle uncomfortably.

He moved away. Leda gave him a coy, sideways glance that told everyone at the table that she was amused with Skittery's obvious jealously. Perhaps she had even expected it. She was probably counting on it. She was used to it–to Skittery's _moods_.

After two and half months, Leda had seen Skittery get upset over nothing and happy over the smallest thing. He had mood swings. Ups and downs. Like that roller coaster down at Sea Lion Park. The one that they took down a few years ago 'cause people kept getting their necks snapped. This was nothing. Trivial. She turned back to Jack, whose smile had somehow widened while she had been focusing on Skittery. Any wider and he wouldn't have a jaw.

Any wider and Skittery would probably have broken his jaw.

The night went on, and it didn't take Leda long to come to realization that she really wasn't all that good at poker.

"It just takes practice," said Jack encouragingly.

Leda shrugged, wholly unconcerned that she just lost ten bucks. "You ready Skittery?" she asked.

He stood up without answering her. He didn't need to open his mouth; his actions screamed at her. Cold and distant. Clearly angry. Like a slap of cold water.

"What's your problem?" she asked, grabbing onto his arm and pulling him back with a force he hadn't been expected. He had always had the notion that she wasn't strong. She couldn't be that strong. She was frail. A delicate rose he didn't want to step on and smoosh.

"I ain't got no problem."

And he stepped on her. Her petals were ripped and floating away. Her stem was snapped and hanging loosely on the ground.

Without looking at her, he began to walk towards the exit. Irving Hall by now was quiet and still. The only thing that moved was the smoke lingering in the air. Each step their distance increased, with each step her eyes got wider and her lips shook.

"Skittery," she called, quiet and frantic.

Something in her voice made him stopped. Her voice cut across the room through the smoke and around the people. Irving Hall awoke and the people began to talk, going back to their card games or waiting for the next performer to come out on stage.

Skittery stood in front of Leda, but Leda had turned so that her shoulder was perpendicular to his chest. She was hurt and resentful and she didn't want him to see her cry.

Leda wasn't the crying type.

"Sorry," he said. "Leda, I said I'm sorry . . . Leda, would you just look at me?" He grabbed her arm. "Leda, don't do this . . . I'm sorry, alright? . . . Would you just look at me?"

"Let's get outta here."

No one talked about it afterwards, but . . . Skittery was in love. He was hooked. He couldn't be without her. Which was fine, except for the fact that the girl was rich. Why was a rich girl like that, hangin' around with a guy with ink-stained fingers? Wouldn't she want someone a little cleaner?

Leda became a regular at the Lodging House. He spent most of his time with her. He barely sold any papers. He didn't have to: Leda _supported_ him.

The guy was clearly changed. He smiled more often. He got up earlier. It was like he was a man. No longer the poor newsboy. A business man. Ready to get married and have a family.

It was scary.

"Heya Skits," said Racetrack one night, as Skittery ascended the stairs to the bunk room. "Haven't seen ya in a while. Where ya been?"

Skittery shrugged. "Out."

"With Leda, right?"

"Yeah. So?"

"Nothin'. I was just wonderin'." Racetrack puffed on his cigar thoughtfully and then he said, "She's doin' okay? I mean. She's happy an' all?"

"Why wouldn't she be happy?"

"She wouldn't. I was just inquiring as to her good health. Is she doin' okay?"

"Yeah, she's okay." Skittery looked at him suspiciously. "Why do ya care anyway, Race?"

"I just heard a few things, that's all."

"What type of things?"

"Well, I was talkin' to this guy from Brooklyn and he says he met this lady who was willing to . . . do some things for him. Described her to me an' all. Sounded kinda like Leda. It was prolly her sister or somethin', right?"

"Leda ain't got a sister."

"Oh. Just a coincidence, then uh?"

"Yeah," said Skittery.

A few minutes of silence passed.

"You know," said Skittery. "I think I left my hat at Leda's. I'm gonna go get it."

Skittery left the room and Racetrack smirked.

Skittery's hat was sitting on his night stand.

* * *

Four blocks away from the lodging house, a man issued forth from a decrepit old building amidst yells and curses and the sound of a table being knocked over.

"Dammit," he said, straightening his jacket on his thin shoulders. "Damn woman . . . ." He walked down the street, mumbling curses under his breath. He yanked his thin jacket closer to him and pushed forth. He stumbled often and those who passed him frowned disdainfully at him.

The man was clearly drunk.

Stopping in front of a brick building, he raised his head, looking to the apartment on the top floor. The light was on, and he entered the building.

* * *

Leda's light was on, but Skittery knocked softly anyway. He thought he heard some movement and he waited for her to open the door.

She didn't.

He knocked again, a little harder, thinking she hadn't heard him. The door opened slightly with the force of his knock, and he peered inside.

He viewed everything in one glance. He viewed it objectively, as if looking at a painting and not something real. Not something happening in front of him.

Not Leda underneath some unshaven drunk who had his mouth on her neck.

Not Leda with her skirt up.

Not Leda.

Not her.

It . . . it was Leda.

It was her.

It was her with her skirt up.

Her back was to him, but it was her.

That little rose that he didn't want to smoosh. Yeah, it was fuckin' some other man.

"Hey, pal," said the man. "You're gonna have ta wait. I got 'er paid fer an hour."

Skittery slammed the door shut.

His chest was tight. He felt like he couldn't breath.

He felt like he was drowning.

Sinking.

Slowly, he walked back home.

Home to his rundown lodging house with his crude, dirty friends.

He was crazy to think he could ever be anything else. Anything other than some poor shmuck with dirty hands and feet.

"Hey, Skittery," said Racetrack, when Skittery had returned. "How's–"

"Shut-up Race."

Skittery threw himself on his bed and turned onto his side, away from the eyes staring worriedly at him.

It wasn't real concern, anyway.

It was pity.

(tbc)

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_A/N: One more part, and then it'll be over._ _Please review and let me know what you thought about this chapter. All comments are appreciated!_


	3. Love

"Leda Rose"

Love

Racetrack sat back in his chair and fanned his cards out in front of him. His gaze was cool, calm, and indifferent, causing the other boys sitting around the table to shifted uneasily. With a puff of his cigar, he threw down his cards and smiled widely.

"Pleasure doin' business with ya boys," he said, collecting his winnings.

The boys groaned and threw their own cards down in frustration. Each wandered away to some other more interesting spot of the concert hall, leaving Racetrack to count his prizes with a happy grin on his face. As he was about to get up and find some other poor shmuck to rip off, he caught a snippet of conversation behind him and he stopped.

"You hear 'bout that Leda dame?"

"'Bout her bein' pregnant an' all?"

"Yeah, guess she's outta business, uh?"

He heard them laughing behind him and rushed out of the smoky room.

-------------------------------------

In Manhattan, there is a little-known street that, for some reason, is always filled with people. It seemed as if everyone had to pass the little-known street to make it to a widely-known street, and Skittery had found it to be a very nice place to sell papers. Not only was he guaranteed some business, but it was far from where he met Leda.

"Thank you," he said to a old man buying a paper from him. He yelled out the headline again, and two customers bought a paper.

It had been two weeks since he'd last seen Leda. He was doing okay . . .

He might not be able to sleep anymore and he might feel a slight ache in his chest and he might hate going to Central Park because there were rose bushes everywhere, but . . . .

He was okay. He'd survive.

It wasn't like he was in _love_. Skittery didn't fall in love. He becomes infatuated and then all emotion fades, replacing it with indifference. Yep, indifference . . . .

He sighed, realizing he couldn't even lie to himself.

He was like one 'a them hopeless fellows who meets a dame and then suddenly starts buyin' flowers and writing love letters. He was a wimp and it made him sick. She was cheatin' on him and he was hurting. He felt like his heart was bleeding. Stabbed by a thorn.

He began walking to the north side of the street, hoping to find some new customers, and accidentally bumped into someone.

He knew it was her before he even looked up.

It was like those stories he used to hear the girls at Irving Hall talking about. A reunion when lovers least expect it. They were supposed to apologize, kiss and live happily ever after.

Too bad all he could remember was that other guy.

She opened her mouth to say something, but he walked away. He heard her say his name, her voice quivering like when they had that fight at Irving Hall a few weeks ago. He stopped for a second, just like he did at Irving Hall. No, I won't let her, he thought vindictively.

When he first met Leda, he felt that he was below her. His hands were dirty, his shoes had holes, and he spent most of his days on the street. But he realized now that he was above her.

She was just a common street girl, who tried to cover the dirt of the streets.

She did a pretty good job of it too. Even now her hair was clean and shiny, her nails were long and her skin was pale. Her dress wasn't rimmed with mud and her shoes were still new–brown ones that he'd never seen before. Must have bought them a few days ago.

He figured he was better than her simply because he wasn't tryin' to be somebody else. He wasn't hiding nothing.

He resumed walking, feeling her eyes on his back like tiny bullets of fire. It felt like she was trying to get him to stop walking simply through the power of thought. But the power of thought would never stop him. Just like it couldn't stop a ship from sinking.

He was lost to her, even though she could still see him walking away. He was at the bottom of some ocean. Leaving her standing on a craggy cliff, wanting nothing more than to jump. The sound of his footsteps was lost and she could barely see his floppy mess of brown curls. His white shirt moved through the crowd and eventually faded away.

She thought about following him. She even took a step forward.

But he hated her. She knew he did. He hated her for what she did. For what she was doing. For what she _was_.

She even hated herself. So how could someone like him love a gal like her?

You didn't love prostitutes. You just fucked 'em.

-------------------------------------

"Skittery."

"Huh?"

"I was over in Brooklyn today, and I heard some stuff . . . 'bout . . . you know."

Skittery sat up. "No."

"You know, 'bout . . . her."

His shoulders tensed. "So?" he asked. "Why should I care?"

"Because you two . . ." Racetrack waved his hand around vaguely. " . . . you know."

Skittery shrugged indifferently and swung his legs to the floor. He stood up and stretched lazily. "We had some fun, so what?"

Race scratched the back of his neck. "Well I heard she was in some trouble."

"Why should I care?"

"Because I thought you might be the father, that's why."

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Father is a scary word. It makes a guy shake with fear and sweat nervously. It makes him mumble "Not me, not me," over and over again until he gets mad thinkin' that it belongs to somebody else and that his girl's been going behind his back and sleepin' with the guy next door in apartment number five. It makes him want to soak the guy in apartment number five. Actually, forget soaking, it makes him grab the handgun on his way out the door.

The word "father," to Skittery, made him worried. He worried that she wasn't getting enough food and that she didn't have warm enough clothes. She was probably freezing at night. And that couldn't be good for the baby . . . . He worried that the real father was a jerk. Because Skittery couldn't be the father–he'd never slept with her.

They'd never felt the need to.

He reached her door and burst right in, not even worrying about knocking. If there was somebody there, he'd make them leave. At first he thought that she was out, but then he heard a sniffle to his left, and he turned.

Leda was laying on the floor, crying her eyes out. Her shoulders shook with a sob and she looked up at him helplessly.

His lips were set in a stern line as he leaned down and gathered her up in his arms. He intended to say something to her, something that'd make her laugh or at least show that he wasn't angry at her anymore.

He found her lips touching his before he could get a word out.

She clutched his body to hers and her lips tasted like fire. She'd never kissed him like this before, so strong, so forcefully.

So passionately.

It was like she was suffocating and he had all the air.

His hand flew to her waist, his fingers entangled in her hair, and he shifted his weight so that she was half-way on top of him. Things were just getting comfortable when she pushed him away and turned ashamedly from him.

Confused, he said, "Leda?"

She shook her head. "You ain't like them. I ain't gonna do that to you." Looking up at him, she smiled apologetically. He wasn't the kind of guy who came into her apartment late at night, throwing some money down on the table. He came to her, yes, and now he was holding her, comforting her. He was the guy that sat with her and told her funny jokes.

"So," said Leda, standing up and wiping her face with the back of her hand. "I guess I need to find a new profession, uh?"

"I thought you were already done with that, you know, because . . . ."

She didn't seem to realize what he was talking about.

"Because of the baby," he clarified.

She cocked her head to the side. "I ain't pregnant."

"But Race said . . . ."

She laughed. "And you believe everything Race says? It was just a rumor goin' 'round 'cause I told this fellow I was outta business for the night. I ain't pregnant."

He nodded his head. "Oh. Then I guess I should change my job."

She wanted to ask him why, but she had a feeling she knew anyway. A newsie can't support a wife. Besides, he was getting older and not many people will buy a paper from a newsie with a five o'clock shadow.

"I . . . I love ya, Skits."

Her words floated across the air and made it to his ears. For a minute, he wasn't sure what she said, as if the letters got jumbled on their journey. But they sorted themselves out and he replied, "I love ya too, Leda."

And it was that simple. Because feelings were feelings and sometimes they really were that easy to identify. The word love, with a few assisting words around it, was all they needed.

_The End._

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_A/N: Hope you liked it! Please review and let me know what you think!_


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